


Pfft, dead?

by drcalvin



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prussia isn't dead. Why should he be, when there's such awesome fun to be had in the world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pfft, dead?

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a "cheer up!" fic for a sad anon at the hetalia anon_meme. Contains chickens.

**1990**

"But why do I get the small bedroom?"

West just gives you _that look_,that fond, yet exasperated one. It tells you that although you've only been reunited for one year, your ungrateful little bastard of a brother is already contemplating shipping you back to Russia in a crate. Except, of course, you're not a wimp like Italy Veneziano. So there's no-fucking-body in the world who could squeeze you into a crate.

"We only have two bedrooms and the other one is mine," West points out, pinching his nose like he always does when he's worried. "Besides, I've seen your old apartment. Most of it could have fit in here."

"Yes, but," and you let your voice waver just a little, "that wasn't really... my apartment. I couldn't even lock the door." You swallow as if choking back old tears. Refrain from mentioning that it was because you lost the key while drunk and, after you broke the door open, couldn't be arsed to fix it again.  
"And all my things, my diaries, my history... They weren't there."

West fidgets, smooths his over-geled hair back and looks around with an ever-deepening frown.  
"I- I guess that's true." The muscular shoulders slump a little more. "Maybe, ah, Sweden could help us build a new bathroom on the other side. Then we could move this wall?"

"Awesome, little brother!" You clap West on the back and smile at him, realising that the planned smirk of triumph has turned into something else, but not really caring.

**1994**

"God, brother, how can you drink this?" West shudders like a little girl and you squash the urge to smack his sissy Wessie ass.

"It's the taste of awesome! You're just too much of a wimp to admit it!"

"Tastes like battery acid," he murmurs, but tries another sip.

The Vita Cola has revived. Even if you know you were damn tired of the taste back in the eightes, would gladly have traded a whole truckful of them for one bloody bottle of decadent, imperialistic Coca Cola... Right now, it tastes just right. Not too sweet, but a little tangy. Each mouthful is another memory of days that, in retrospect, weren't that bad. Whole lot better than the thirty years war, or the first world war (talk about a downer), and those crusades? Yeah, a bottle of Vita would have been just the thing when running around all of the Holy Land and getting sneered at by the Templar or shot at by Muslims.

"It grows on you," you insist, "give it a little while."

West looks sceptical, but he keeps on drinking, and so you pretend not to notice that he's sneaking increasing amounts of something high-proof into his glass.

"Yeah... Tastes pretty damn awesome, really," you murmur and remember red, red days.

**2001**

"I don't see why we have to change currencies again," you whine to the wavering image of West slouching on a bar stool. "S a good one, the D-Mark."

"Pro'ress," West mumbles, speaking as if his tongue is two sizes too large for his mouth. "The boss is very, very, very... Very."  
He waves his empty beer glass at the bartender, who gives you a calculating glance. What he sees, two extremely inebriated brothers is enough to make him hesitate, but what you produce - a handful of crumpled, and soon-to-be worthless, D-marks - helps him make up his mind in the right direction.

"The bosses're always very," you proclaim and empty the last of your own beer before accepting another one. "Gotta stand up to them, West! Be a man, damnitall!"

"But's... supposed to be good for peace." West burps a little. "Sorry."

You forgive him with a imperial wave of your hand; what's a little burping between brothers? As long as he doesn't repeat the Incident where he puked on your twelfth-century armour, you're prepared to forgive most drunken mishaps. Besides, he's been gracious enough to forgive you when you fell asleep in the wrong bed, woke up with a fucking awful hangover, thought he was Russia and proceeded to kick him in the balls before he even managed a "Good morning". That's pretty fucking decent of a man. Only one you ever forgave for kicking you in the balls was Hungary and that's because she hadn't realised that just because her didn't hurt much, didn't mean that those of other guys did. Not, you reflect, that Hungary ever had balls, although her methawhatchamacallthemorical were awesomely huge.

"What?" you ask, realizing that West's slurring something to you, very earnestly and very difficult to understand.

"Last one," he promises, "last one for a while, bro'er." He lifts his fingers - no, wait, he only has one index finger, doesn't he?  
"For West and East and Middle Germany... this is the one we'll keep. Yeah."

"...well, they've got a lot of pretty colours to pick from, at least."

**2009**

"Brother! BROTHER"

"Wha?" You stumble blearily from bed, narrowly missing to step on a yellow chick that chirps adorably at you. "Waaah!"

The panicked flailing is, admittedly, a little less than awesome, but at least you manage not to turn the fluffy bird into chick-pancake and you always considered that vase hideous anyway.

West storms into the room and only your lightning-fast reflexes (and perhaps the panicked shriek) stops him sweeping the door over the chick.

"Your birds," he growls, "have escaped. Again."

He's got two chicks sitting on his head, has three hens in his arms and the oldest dog comes trotting after with another two hen utilizing the Alsatian Taxi. It's too bloody cute and- ahaha, oh, the look on West's face! It's priceless, and you're digging for your cellphone before remembering that you're still in your pyjamas.

"What are you laughing at, brother?" West glares so well that you hardly even care that it's at you, and you can only laugh harder until you're almost in spasms on the floor, while the birds gather around you, clucking and chirping in slight worry.

"Are you alright?"

"Kehahahaha!" You take a deep breath, trying to control yourself and nod. West worries so and it doesn't get easier when idiots like the yank open conversations with the words, 'So how 'bout your bro, Germany? Still ain't dead, huh?'.

You would have kicked his ass yourself, except England and France got there first. For once the old bastards even teamed up. That was kinda touching, but... Ah. It was also yesterday, so perhaps that's why West is looking at you as if he's about to cry?

"I'm fine, West, I'm just fucking awesome." You give him a blinding smile. Today, you must be looking exceptionally fine, even lying on the floor with chicks all around you, because West relaxes and almost smiles back a little.

"I guess nowadays even a chick can fell the mighty Prussia, huh?" he quips and you punch his leg playfully.

"They may fell me," you reply and jump to your feet, "but no-one can keep my awesomeness down!"

Your laughter mix together and when the dog joins in with happy barking, the chicks scatter and flutter everywhere and all in all, you know of worse ways to start a day.


End file.
